


Five Days of Summer at Bourbon-Les-Eaux (And Two Nights of Bitter Winter)

by NorthernStar



Series: Four Seasons (The Musketeer's Child) [2]
Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas, The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: 5+2 Genre, Abbe Aramis, And Sometimes There is No Right Choice, Athos Has Trust Issues, Betrayal, Book Canon Character Death, Childhood, Family, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Kid Fic (That Isn't Really About the Kid), Multiple Points of View, Secret lives, Sequel, Until the Last Chapter And Then It Is, hard choices
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-17
Updated: 2014-06-22
Packaged: 2018-01-19 18:16:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1479334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorthernStar/pseuds/NorthernStar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It reminds her of Jesus and the story of the loaves and the fishes.  If this is all she would ever have, she prayed that it would be enough.</p><p>Chapters are stand-alone stories that can be read individually but arc over the years into a complete work.<br/><i>One:</i> <b>Anne - December, 1631</b> Anne meets Aramis at Bourbon-Les-Eaux<br/><i>Two:</i> <b>Porthos - Summer, 1633</b> Porthos understands in a way the others never will...<br/><i>Three:</i> <b>Constance - Summer, 1635</b> Constance keeps many secrets, her own and her Queen's.<br/><i>Four:</i> <b>D'Artagnan - Summer, 1636</b> "I have nothing left of her, Athos."<br/><i>Five:</i> <b>Athos - Early Summer, 1638</b> His actions tore them apart and he does not want to be forgiven.<br/><i>Six:</i> <b>Aramis - Late Summer, 1643</b> Aramis had seen men fall in battle, had seen lovers die in his arms, but nothing, none of it compared to even a second of this.<br/><i>Seven:</i> <b>Isabelle - December, 1649</b> It had been many years since she last set foot here and yet the memories were so fresh.</p><p>Sequel to "Fait Accompli."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Anne

**December, 1631**  
  
Moonlight lit the eerie blue waters of the pool at Bourbon-Les-Eaux and cast the surrounding forest into ominous shadow.  Anne shivered in the bitter chill of the night so violently that her maid, Constance, stepped forward and draped another cloak around her shoulders. She tried to smile in thanks but the terrible churn of nerves in her belly kept it from her face.

Behind them, on the ridge above, she heard the approach of horse’s hooves, cantering ever closer.  They came to a stop and then there was soft talking and finally silence.

“Your majesty?”

The voice came from behind her.  She had not heard him approach.

Aramis looked tired as he bowed to her.  All four of the musketeers had borne the marks of exhaustion on their faces the last time she’d seen them at the palace.  She knew that Rochefort’s campaign of hatred had worn them down over the last year.  She wanted to go to him, pull him into her arms, hold him against her heart until he could feel her love as a physical thing.  But she dared not.

If they were observed, they could not claim this was the King’s musketeers offering to guard the Queen while she took a medicinal midnight bathe in the waters. 

“Aramis.”  His name always felt so right on her lips.

Constance broke from her side, laying a hand on Aramis’ arm as she passed him, before moving back into the trees and offering them some measure of privacy.

“Where is she?” The question came before she could stop it.  It was all she thought about.

“She’s safe.”

A terrible well of desperation threatened to sweep her away.  “Is she far from Paris?”  She could not bear the thought of her child being any further away.

“You know I cannot tell you.”  Aramis said and stepped forward, closer than propriety would allow. She could feel the warmth of his body, the caress of his breath on her skin. “It is safer for you both if I do not.”

Hot anger rushed up.  “I would never betray her location!  Not even to save my own life!”

“I know that.”  He touched her arm and she could see the sincerity in his eyes.  “But the temptation, if you knew where she was, for just…one glimpse…  If I were in your place, I know I could not resist.”  There was a terrible sadness in his voice, like a confession.  Perhaps it was.  Their places were almost reversed after all, her with their daughter at the palace and Aramis as the barest of outsiders, destined for a life of whatever he could snatch of their child’s life: a momentary flicker of her through crowds at most.

The thought of him enduring such hardship hurt almost as much as enduring it herself.

“Do you see her?”

He smiled fondly.  “As often as I can,” he said.  “As often as my duties allow.”

“Is she well?”  Each answer was a strange torture, giving as much pain as comfort. 

“Well and happy and as beautiful as her mother.”

“What did you call her?”

He looked down, avoiding her gaze.  Surely it was not a danger to know that?  She was about to promise him that if she heard the name in court she would stay strong, she would force herself not to react, would not look twice, when he spoke.

“Isabelle.”

A chill ran through her.  The nun, the girl from Aramis’ past…

“The name… It does not mean what you think it does.”

“That you named my child after your lost love?”  She heard the anger in her voice and didn’t regret it.

“I spent my life believing that the future I should have had with the person who became Sister Helene was the only one in which I could be truly happy.  But that was not the truth.  It was just a pleasant dream, nothing more.”  His fingers moved against the skin of her arm.  She’d almost forgotten he was still touching her.  “Perhaps I should have accepted those wasted years but as I rode out of Bradonne with our child in my arms, I found I could not.”

He finally raised his eyes and she saw only honesty in them.  But she still didn’t understand him.

“Even as I held her, I knew she too was a future that I cannot have, because it is not safe.”  Aramis said.  “Perhaps Isabelle…our Isabelle…was really the one in my heart all those years and I just did not know it.” 

She wanted to hate him for his explanation and call it weak and feeble but she could recall all too clearly Helene’s kindness towards her, could still feel an echo of the jealousy she had felt when she had walked in on them talking and she remembered the look of loss on Aramis’ face at nun’s death…and found only a reluctant acceptance. 

She turned away from him and the chill of the night without his heat made her shiver.

“At least you have some time with her,” she said.  Bitterness filled her in the absence of his warmth.  “There are days I do not think I can bear to be apart from her for another second.  I pray to God every day that there will come a time when I can see her again.”

“That is…part…of why I came.”

Anne went still.  Her traitorous heart beating suddenly faster. 

“Your visits to the waters are regular and would not be questioned, this pool is secluded, guarded by musketeers hand-picked by Captain Treville and you are attended only by your most trusted maids…”  He stepped closer.  If she leant back, just a fraction, she would press against his chest.  “I could bring her here.”

She found herself shaking, trembling with a joy she didn’t dare give into in case it was snatched away.  “In the summer?”  Months and month away, but she would bear it; she would _make_ herself bear it…

“Perhaps not this coming year,” he said regretfully and she turned quickly then, stifling a cry.  “She would be too young,” Aramis explained, “and the cardinal has not forgotten.  We must give him time to relax his guard.” 

A whole year.  More than a whole year.  Her heart ached, pounding so hard she could hear its rush in her ears.  How she would withstand the agony of the slow passage of time, she did not know.  But she was the Queen of France and she had endured much already.  She trusted to her own strength and heart that she would. 

She became aware that he was waiting for an answer.  “I would like that.”

“I’m sorry I cannot do more.”

She reached up and touched his cheek.  She remembered the feel of his skin against hers, had kept the memory safe and precious inside her even as her husband grunted and laboured over her in his attempt to rid her of it.  “You have given me hope, Aramis.”

His face melted softly into a smile.  The sight of it stole her breath. 

“I came to give you more than hope, your majesty.”  As he spoke, he tugged at the necklace she’d given him, so long ago now, until the cross was freed from his clothes.  Wound around the fine gold was a locket and chain, fashioned in silver.  He untangled it and held it out.  She took it, laid it in her palm.  It was a fine piece, elegantly crafted.  A bitter thought passed through her.  Which of his many lovers had gifted him with this?

“It was my mother’s.” 

She looked up and wondered if she’d spoken the question aloud.

He reached out and opened the locket.  Inside was a small lock of hair.  Baby’s hair.

“Is this -?”  She stroked it reverently.  Finally touching something of her child after so very long.

“Yes.”  He put his hand on hers.  “You must not wear this.”

“I’ll keep it hidden.”

“No.  Keep it with your other jewellery, those that you do not wear very much.”  His fingers tightened.  “Do not make it seem precious to you.”

Leaving those tiny, tiny strands of hair where anyone could touch them filled her with dread, but she would do as he said.  “I understand.”

“I should go.”  He stepped away, bowing, but keeping his eyes on her all the same.  “A midnight bathe would not last long.”

“Thank you, Aramis.”

She pressed the locket against her as she watched the blackness of the night take him from her sight.


	2. Porthos

**Summer, 1633**  
  
Morning  
  
Porthos stood in the centre of the road watching the hooded man as he rode up.  The horse slowed to a trot then came to a stop beside the musketeer.  The man did not remove his hood.  He handed a large bundle to Porthos, wrapped in the blue cloak of a musketeer, nodded once and then turned his horse. 

Porthos clutched the cloak to his chest as he watched the hooded man gallop away without so much as a backward glance.  
  
-o-  
  
Porthos was almost back in the forest of Bourbon-Les-Eaux when he felt the bundle wiggle and let out a whine.  He looked down to see a pair of bright blue eyes staring up at him from the folds of Aramis’ cloak.  He sighed and quickened his pace.  He knew she wouldn’t tolerate being carried for long and sure enough, she was kicking and twisting within minutes and calling out “papa” as well as a word that was probably “down.”

He reached the safety of the trees and put her down, removing the cloak and tying it around his own shoulders.  Isabelle d’Herblay stood for a moment looking around, clearly frightened.  She was dressed in a simple white smock and someone had tied a bow in her thick black hair.  They had probably taken pains to make her look presentable but the effect had been ruined by her falling asleep wrapped in a cloak.  Now she just looked messy and unkempt.

“Papa?”  She called out. 

“He’ll be back…soon.” Was a week soon when you were two-years-old? He wondered.

“Papa!” 

And then she began wailing.  
   
-o-  
  
Arriving at the pool of milky water with Isabelle crying and dangling from his arms was not how Porthos had imagined reuniting the queen with her child.  But life had never treated Porthos fairly and so he should not have been surprised that Anne’s first look at Isabelle, as she emerged from her bathing tent, was of her kicking and twisting in his grip and wailing so loudly one might think the devil himself had hold of her.

“Put her down!”  Anne commanded and then seemed to freeze.  She fell silent, went pale. 

Porthos obeyed. 

Isabelle, her freedom now given to her, stopped screeching abruptly.  Porthos guessed she probably would have made of run for it if she hadn’t been stricken by the strange woman in front of her and the way she was being stared at.

One long pause followed and then…

The Queen finally started forward, hand reaching out and the little girl clutched at Porthos’ leg.

Behind the Queen, Constance stepped out of the tent and Isabelle let out a little cry and darted over to her, “Con-Con,” she wailed, grasping at her skirts.  Porthos’ jaw clenched at the little girl’s distress.

Constance picked the child up and Isabelle pressed against her.  Porthos could see the devastation on Anne’s face.

“We should go inside, your majesty.”  Porthos said.  Athos and D’Artagnan were out in the woods, ensuring that there were no trespassers to observe them, but it would still be wise with the Queen’s emotions so unguarded.

“Of course.”  She led the way inside.

Constance carried Isabelle into the tent.  Porthos stayed outside, turning his back to the door to better scan the trees.  He could hear every word through the thin fabric; Constance’s gentle shushing and reassurances and finally Anne began, softly, to talk to her daughter.

It really wasn’t all that long, in the grand scheme of things, before he could hear Isabelle’s mangled replies.

Porthos drew a long breath.  Children were so resilient.  
  
Midday  
  
Porthos watched from the ridge, Athos at his side.  Below, in the shallows of the pool, Anne sat with Isabelle as the toddler paddled and splashed and giggled.  The little girl looked happy, all bright smiles that were tiny mirrors of Aramis’ and excited babble.  And the Queen seemed almost to glow now the child had relaxed in her company.  It should have been the perfect picture.

And yet…

“Aramis should never have agreed to this.”  He told Athos.

“It is safe.”

“I mean, leaving her here and going back to Paris.  He should have stayed.”

“It is important not to draw the Cardinal’s attention.”  Athos replied.  “Aramis’ presence here might have done that.  This was the only way to keep Isabelle from harm.” 

Porthos fought down his frustration.  “What about the harm of being abandoned in middle of strangers.”

“We are hardly strangers.”  Athos finally turned his head to look at him, probably hearing his anger.  “She knows us.”

“Barely.”

“Aramis took Constance to visit Isabelle several times so that she knows her.”

“It’s not the same as having a parent to turn to.”  He fixed his eyes on the little girl and thought of the boy he’d once been, so small and alone on the streets of Paris.  “Believe me, I know.”  
  
Afternoon  
  
Porthos sat in the shade.  A few feet away, Isabelle napped on a blanket.  Anne sat by her side, stroking her hair, with a look of wonder on her face. 

“She looks like Aramis.”  Anne said, her words barely above a whisper.

Porthos smiled.  “She does.”  Then he chuckled.  “She’s just as much trouble too.”

“Is he a good father?”

Porthos rested his head back against the tree.  He could tell her that right now, he wasn’t so sure.  He could also tell her that he was the last person to judge since he didn’t know his father and barely remembered what it was like to have a mother.  But he settled for, “he loves her very much.”

This seemed to satisfy her and she returned her attention to the sleeping child.   
Porthos closed his eyes and let his mind drift.  The first tendrils of sleep were just coaxing him downwards when a soft word pulled him.

_“Poco princesa.”_

He opened his eyes, sat up sharply.

Perhaps his jerking movements alerted the queen for she looked questioningly at him.

“Aramis calls her that sometimes.”

“It’s Spanish,” Anne told him, “for little princess.”  She looked down at her child again and smiled so softly, so beautifully.  

“That’s what you are,” she whispered, “a little Spanish princess.  And you should wear a crown…”

Isabelle snuffled in her sleep and Anne removed her hand, clearly fearful that she’d woken her.  She went to get up, something like panic crossing her features.

Porthos motioned for her to stay then put his finger to his lips.  He got up himself.  If anyone were to move to prevent conversation from waking the child, of course it should be him. 

She smiled gratefully and he bowed respectfully.  
  
-o-  
  
Porthos returned sometime later to find Anne rocking a drowsy but otherwise awake Isabelle on her lap.  She looked up at his approach and smiled.  He held out a crown made of wildflowers.

“Just…” he said as she took it, “…don’t tell anyone I made it.”  
  
Evening  
  
D’Artagnan used the flickering light from the fire to make shadow puppets on the tent: a bird, a dog, a deer…  Isabelle watched and giggled from her perch on the Queen’s lap.  She was covered in dirt, her dress was torn and her hair had dried into a mess of knots.  The crown of flowers on her head had wilted and she looked about as far from a Spanish princess as it was possible to get but Anne did not seem to mind.

Porthos hid a smile as he watched her.  Her complete dishevelment reminded him of Aramis, not long after they had met, and the young man had been forced to flee, naked, through a river and several hedges to avoid being shot by a cuckolded husband.

The smile fell when the Queen’s other maid, Sophie, curtsied and said.  “We should go your majesty.”  Her voice was carefully neutral.  If she knew of Anne’s secret, it did not show on her face.

Anne hid her reluctance well, releasing Isabelle and rising to her feet.  They all stood up respectfully.

“Constance,” she said, “I will tell the guard of the chateau that you are preparing for our return here tomorrow.  They will expect you later.” 

“Thank you, your majesty.”

Anne knelt in front of Isabelle, “I will see you tomorrow.”

The child merely looked at all the standing adults and tugged at D’Artagnan’s clothes, “’Gain, ‘gain,” she pleaded and she flapped her hand to make a shadow.  “Me do it.”

Porthos saw the sadness that Anne tried to hide.  Despite his frustration at the situation that had been forced upon Isabelle, he couldn’t help the wave of pity he felt.   
  
Night  
  
Isabelle took a long time to settle.  They could not risk taking the child to servant’s quarters they had been allotted at the chateau so they had set up one of the military tents deep in the forest.  They would take it in turns to sleep there with Isabelle. 

Porthos watched as Constance rocked and shushed the crying child.  Isabelle sobbed for her papa and for someone she called “Tildy,” until exhaustion took over and it melded into a continuous murmur of “ma ma ma ma ma…” that grew fainter and fainter as she finally fell asleep.

 _Mama_ , Porthos thought.  The beginning and the end of the world when you were a child.  _She’s here._   He wanted to tell her.

How many nights after his mother died had he fallen asleep like this?  He didn’t know.  But he remembered the pain still.

He watched sadly as Constance laid her down on the quilts and tucked her in.  She waited long moments until she was sure that the child was fully asleep before slipping from the tent. 

Alone now, Porthos settled down at the child’s side and closed his eyes.  “You’re father’s an idiot.”  He told her softly.  “You’d better get used to it.”    



	3. Constance

**Summer, 1635**  
  
Morning  
  
Constance smoothed the brush over the Queen’s hair and tried not to feel envious of her happiness.  Anne always kept her excitement skilfully hidden with every ounce of the reserve that had been instilled in her since birth, but she relaxed more in Constance’s company than with any of her other trusted maids and little tells of her happiness began to bleed out when they were alone. 

After a long year, Anne was going to see her daughter again.

Constance certainly didn’t resent the Queen for these precious few days a year despite the risks to herself and to everyone she loved, but now it brought home to her something she did not want to confront. 

She was barren.

Years of marriage with Bonacieux and she still remained childless.  She had hoped (prayed, quietly, treacherously) that lying with D’Artagnan might bless her but her monthly courses came just the same.  Last year, she had snuck away while the Queen was playing with Isabelle and swum in the pool herself.  Still dripping with the mineral rich water, she had snagged D’Artagnan’s hand and pulled him deep into the forest. 

She had cried so bitterly when she bled a few weeks later.

Outside of the tent, voices could be heard coming closer.  Anne looked up at Constance, a sudden unguarded look of utter joy passing across her face. 

“My robe,” the queen said, getting up.

Constance draped the fine cloth around the queen and once she was covered, Anne darted from the tent.  Constance followed. 

She emerged to see Porthos and D’Artagnan bowing to the queen, who was all but ignoring them, looking around anxiously.

“You are alone?”  She asked.

The musketeers straightened up.  “Athos is assisting the king’s dispatch.”  Porthos said, “and Aramis is ensuring that her majesty’s safety is not compromised.” 

A dispatch from the king was probably nothing to be concerned about, but they could not be too careful.  Aramis and Isabelle would have to remain hidden for the time being. 

Constance admired the way Anne raised her head, every bit the stately monarch, and spoke.  “Of course.  I shall take the waters.”  She said and none of the weight of disappointment she must surely be crushed under showed in her voice or on her features.  “Please ensure I am not disturbed.”    
  
-o-  
  
Constance felt D’Artagnan’s presence behind her like a warmth.  It flushed through her as he came to stand at her side at the water’s edge.

“Is Isabelle safe?”

“She’s with Aramis.  They rode out as soon as Athos spotted the dispatch.”  D’Artagnan replied. 

“We should never have come.”  Constance said.  “The cardinal is too suspicious.  There are too many rumours about Buckingham.” 

“They are just rumours.”

Constance’s stomach twisted.  The musketeers were unaware of just how true those rumours were.  She hated concealing anything from D’Artagnan but she did so out of loyalty to the Queen.  Anne was in love with the Duke of Buckingham and it was easy to see why.  He looked so much like Aramis that he could easily be mistaken for him in low light.  Constance had been party to many clandestine meetings between the two.

“In fact, they might work in our favour.”  D’Artagnan said.

“How so?”

“All the while the cardinal is focused on England and her prime minister,” he explained, “he does not pay attention to us.”

Constance turned to face him then.  “You sound like a politian.” 

He snorted at that, “hardly,” he muttered. It frightened her sometimes, how much he had changed in last couple of years.

She shivered, “the king would have us all hanged if he found out.”

He offered her a smile, placing his arm around her and pulling her against him.  “He won’t find out.”

He sounded so certain and she wished that she could believe him.  
  
Midday  
  
The sun was at its highest point in the sky when the sound of Athos and Aramis’ approaching horses could be heard.  Anne looked up at the ridge, clearly anxious, and wadded out of the pool.  Constance immediately wrapped her in her robe.  She could feel the queen trembling.

Within minutes, Constance could see the musketeers approaching with a small child walking between them.

Constance saw Anne’s lips move silently but it was easy to read them.

_Isabelle._

Athos and Aramis bowed to the queen, who completely ignored them and went to kneel in front of the child.  
Constance’s heart ached for her, knowing that all she wanted to do was just grab her daughter and hug her to her and never let go.  But she couldn’t.  This little girl didn’t know her and all it would do is frighten her.

“Hello.”  Anne said.

Isabelle looked up at Aramis.

“Isabelle, say hello to the queen.”  He prompted.

“Tent!”  She said instead and pointed.

A fragile smile appeared on Anne’s lips.  “Would you like to see inside?” 

Isabelle broke into a grin and darted off, throwing the tent flaps aside and crashing through.

“I believe that would be a yes.”  Athos said.  
  
Afternoon  
  
Constance sat down next to Aramis.  The musketeer was perched  on a rock with Isabelle’s dirty and torn dress in one hand and a needle and thread in the other.  He was mending it with surprising delicacy, his stitches small, neatly aligned and even. 

“If you ever get tired of soldiering,” Constance said admiringly, “my husband would gladly employ you.”

Porthos laughed.  “I always said you should be a seamstress.” 

That surprised Constance, “you sew often?”

“Far more often than I would like,” he replied and he reached out and ran a finger along a scar on Porthos’ arm. 

Her stomach twisted sickly.

“You should see him stitch a wound.”  Porthos told her.  “There’s no finer doctor in the regiment.”

Aramis held up the dress and eyed his work critically.  “Linen is easier to work with than skin and far less bloody.”  He got up and called out.  “Isabelle!”

The little girl appeared from the tent, dressed only in her undergarments which were now filthy, and hurried over.  He looked down at her. 

“Can you not stay clean even for a single minute?”

She gave him a cheeky grin and shook her head, “no!”

“Good thing we’re right next to a pool then,” Porthos said and scooped her up.  He then dangled the giggling child upside down over his shoulder.  “I’ll bring her back when she’s clean.”

Aramis sat back down.  “That could take a while.”  
  
-o-  
  
Constance stood behind Anne and dried her hair.  In the relative privacy of her tent, the Queen allowed her sadness to show.

“She has grown.”  Anne said.

Constance smoothed a tangle.  “She has, your majesty.”

“I miss so much of her life.”

She couldn’t stop the traitorous thought that at least she got to some time.  Constance would gladly take just that over the emptiness of her own womb.

“She does not like me very much.”

“She doesn’t know you.”  Constance pointed out.  “There is a difference.”  Then remembered her place.  “Your majesty.”

The Queen smiled to show that wasn’t offended by the impertinence and got up.  She walked to the tent door and opened it just a crack, enough to see Aramis on the far edge of the pool, with Isabelle at his side.  They were laughing together.

“She looks at him as if he is her whole world.”

“She’s a woman,” Constance joked.  “He’s Aramis.”

The Queen frowned and Constance knew that was an impertinence too far.

“Isabelle is 4 years old and he’s her father.”  She felt her own heart ache for her own sake at her words.  “Of course she thinks he is her whole world.”

“I want to be part of her world.”  She sounded so young.

“You are.”

In the distance, Isabelle crawled into her father’s lap.  He pecked her soundly on the lips.   

“It just takes time.”  Constance told her.

Anne looked around, eyes full of sorrow.  “Time is something I will never have.”  
  
Evening  
  
Constance lay in D’Artagnan’s arms, drowsy after their lovemaking.  They were concealed among the trees on the edge of the small ridge, far enough away for their soft conversation to go unheard but not so far that the squeals of Isabelle splashing in the water didn’t reach them.

If she raised her head and looked through the leaves of the bush they lay behind, she would see them in the shallows: Anne and Aramis and Isabelle.  But she contented herself with the sounds of a family at play. 

She envied them.

Constance reached up and smoothed back her wet hair.  Perhaps this time… 

She closed her eyes and told herself that the waters had to have earned their reputation for royalty to come here. 

But last year…her traitorous heart reminded her and brought with it all the turmoil of the last twelve months.

“So much has happened,” she said, “since last year.”

“Rochefort is in prison. Milady is gone.”  His fingers moved against her skin.  “They cannot hurt us anymore.  We are safer than we’ve ever been.”

She lifted her head, looked at him.  “You sound so sure.”

“I am.”  He kissed her.  “Aramis would never have risked joining us if it were any different.”

She wanted to tell him that, miles away from this place, the Duke of Buckingham was sailing to France and she had seen the force of his desperation to see Anne and it frightened her.

D’Artagnan frowned.  “What?”

But she had pledged her loyalty to the Queen and had sworn to keep her secrets.  So she put her head back on his chest and closed her eyes. “Nothing,” she told him.  With one ear she could hear the beat of D’Artagnan’s heart, with the other Isabelle calling for her papa.

But she sensed that D’Artagnan knew there was more and when his fingers moved along her spine to prompt her, she added, “I just…  I wish it could be like this all the time.  You and me.”

“It can.”  D’Artagnan said.  “If you leave your husband.”

She sat up.

He followed her.  “Bonacieux is no longer of use to the Cardinal.”  He plucked at a wet strand of her hair and the smile in his eyes told her he knew exactly what she had done.  “And we may soon have a very good reason to be together.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

He homed in on her mouth.  “Say yes.”

“Yes,” she murmured against his lips.  
  
Night  
  
“The days go so quickly when I am here.”  The Queen said as Constance attended her to bed.  “And so slowly the rest of the year.”

“That is always the way.” Constance said.  She thought of the coming months with a thrill instead of the dread she was used to.

“I do know how I will bear the months of waiting.”

Constance pulled back the bedcovers and smiled, her own happiness making her playful.  “And I am sure you will find something to fill the time.”

It was the barest hint of her coming meeting with the Duke of Buckingham but a blush appeared on Anne’s cheeks all the same. 

“Perhaps I will,” she said as she got into bed.  She cast a glance at Constance that told her that her joy hadn’t gone unnoticed. 

“Perhaps you will as well.” 

Constance went to put out the lamp.

Anne smiled.  “You will tell me tomorrow,” she decided.

Constance blew out the flame.  “Good night, your majesty.”


	4. D'Artagnan

**Summer, 1636**  
  
Morning  
  
It was the last day.

D’Artagnan was familiar with it now.  Athos would be silent.  Porthos still laughing but a little too loudly now, as if he was trying to make up for the sinking mood that had settled over them.  Aramis, after a week running around after his daughter, would be badly concealing how tired and impatient he had become as he prepared to take the little girl away from Anne again.  The Queen would be stiff and formal, allowing none of the heartache that she must surely feel show on her face.  And for himself…

He and Constance would be snatching as many last stolen moments as they could.

D’Artagnan’s heart ached.  Not this year.  Not any year.

Constance was gone; poisoned by Milady in an act of bitter cruelty and revenge. 

He sat on the ridge, in the very spot that he and Constance had made love the year before, and watched Anne bathe alone in the pool.  He could hear sword fighting behind him and didn’t need to look to see that it was Athos and Porthos sparing.  He knew their swordplay so well that he could hear the difference in their individual styles in the same way he could tell their voices apart.  And Aramis…

The blast of gunfire split the air.

Aramis was teaching his daughter to shoot.

D’Artagnan allowed himself to smile.  Constance would approve.

He missed her like he would miss air if it was taken away, that essential part of living torn from him, and it sometimes marvelled him that he was still drawing breath.  But he had found comfort here, at the pool in Bourbon-Les-Eaux, comfort in being in a place that held so many happy memories of Constance.  It was almost as if he could hear her voice here.

There was a clattering of feet behind him.  “’Tagnan, look.” 

He twisted around.  Isabelle bounced to a stop at his side and held up a dead rabbit.  There was an enormous grin on her face.

“Did you shoot that?”  He asked.

She nodded.

“From 50 feet.”  Aramis said and there was more than a hint of pride in his voice.  “I could not have done better myself.”

D’Artagnan got up and scooped her up into his arms.  She giggled.  “You are a very clever girl!”  He told her.  “Have I told you that Porthos makes the best rabbit stew in Paris?”  
  
Midday  
  
The rabbit made an excellent stew.  He ate it with Isabelle on his lap again.  She had spent more time with him than he ever remembered before.  Perhaps she was imitating the concern and care with which the other musketeers were treating him.  Perhaps he only noticing her presence more because she was too small a person to fill the massive gap that Constance had left in not just D’Artagnan’s heart but in their party and that empty space around her was so visible.

He didn’t feel much like eating, but forced himself for Isabelle’s sake. 

 _“I don’t really like rabbit stew”_ , Constance would point out.  _“Neither do you.”_

Porthos put down his bowl.  “I fancy a fowl for supper.”  He declared and clucked Isabelle under the chin with his fingers.  She giggled.  “I’m counting on you to shoot one.”

_“And get more blood on her dress, I suppose!  Can this child not spend one day clean?”_

“No more shooting Isabelle.”  Aramis said, “you will be spending the afternoon with the Queen.”

“But papa –”

“Not buts.  You promised the Queen.”

She flopped back against D’Artagnan’s chest, her shoulder catching him in the bread basket so that all the air huffed out. 

“Maybe Queen will come shooting too.”  Isabelle said.

“Now that I’d like to see.”  
  
-o-  
  
As D’Artagnan worked, he could hear Isabelle laughing in the distance.  If he looked up he would see her playing at the edge of the pool with her mother and father.  But he kept his head down and concentrated on the knife in his hand.  It was easier that way, to pretend.

Constance was here, in their special place on the ridge, standing behind him and splitting her time between admiring his work and watching the Queen and Isabelle.

There was a loud splash, followed by a peel of Isabelle’s giggles.

 _“I envy them.”_   Constance said.

He dug harder with his knife, bit down on his lip.

_“I wanted a life like that.”_

Wanted.  Past tense.  Dear God.  He could taste blood.

 _“I wanted to love a child.  I wanted to know what it felt like,”_ her voice was so soft, so real, _“to love my own child.”_

The knife trembled in his hand.  His vision blurred, eyes hot with unshed tears.  He drew a shaky breath and tried to continue but the knife slipped from his fingers.

_“I wanted to leave a part of me behind.”_

D’Artagnan fell to his knees, harsh sobs finally breaking free.  They shook his body with a force that he was helpless against so he let them come. 

He jerked when he felt hands on him, arms pulling him in.  He relaxed a bare second later as his body recognised the familiar warmth as Athos and sank into it.   
  
-o-  
  
The musketeer had merely held him as he cried, remaining silent and still, and D’Artagnan was glad of it.  Any noise would have driven the sound of Constance’s voice from his mind and he could not bear to lose that as well. 

Time passed.  His tears faded.  Athos’ arms slipped from around him. The sun began to set. 

When finally D’Artagnan drew himself up enough to look over at his friend, he found Athos examining his knife.  Did he think that D’Artagnan was intending to use it on himself, he wondered.

“I have nothing left of her, Athos.”   He told him.  “Nothing but memories.  They are so strong here, where she was happy.”  Right here, he wanted to tell him, on this very ground on which they sat, where he and

Constance had made love in the hope of creating a life.  He drew Athos’ attention up to the bark of the tree.  “I wanted to leave something of her behind.”

Athos got to his feet.  He looked at the tree that D’Artagnan was pointing at.  He had carved **CONSTAN** in the bark before his grief had overwhelmed him. 

D’Artagnan got up.  He took his knife from Athos’ unresisting fingers but when he moved to finish his work, he found his hand trembled too much.  The blade barely made a mark.

Athos put his hand over D’Artagnan’s, guiding it and pressing against it to give his fingers strength.  “I will help you.”  
  
Evening  
  
The day darkened around them, gradually stealing away the word he and Athos had carved.  But it was still there.  It would always be there.

D’Artagnan reached out and traced the letters with his fingers.

**CONSTANCE.**

“It is my fault she is dead.”  Athos’ voice broke the silence that had fallen between them.

“Milady killed Constance,” D’Artagnan said.  “Not you.”

“If I had handed Milady over to justice instead of sending her away, she –”

“You showed her mercy.”  He told her.  “And she repaid us with brutality.  No one blames you for her actions.”  And he laid a hand on his friends shoulder.  “Only she can answer for her crimes, Athos.”

“’Tagnan!  Athos!”  Isabelle’s voice and D’Artagnan welcomed it. 

“Up here!”  He leaned over the ridge to see the little girl on the ground below.

“Papa says you have to say goodbye to me.”  
  
-o-  
  
D’Artagnan soothed the restless horse as it whinnied impatiently at his master.  Aramis patted his horse comfortingly before he knelt down and carefully closed a small black cloak about Isabelle’s shoulders. 

The Queen crouched at their sides.  “Goodbye, Isabelle,” she said and D’Artagnan marvelled at the controlled and calm tenor of her voice. 

She hugged the little girl for a long moment.  When she finally let go, there was a momentary flash of deep, deep sorrow.  But it was gone as soon as she stood up, tall and proud.  D’Artagnan might almost have thought he imagined it.  But he knew, all too well, what the pain of loss looked like.

Aramis pulled the hood over his child’s face, completely concealing her and also, D’Artagnan realised, hid from her that flash of terrible grief on Anne’s face.

Aramis swung up onto his horse and D’Artagnan lifted Isabelle up and helped her settle against her father’s chest. 

Then he clicked his horse and rode away.  
  
Night  
  
There was a shadow ahead of D’Artagnan, on the other side of the châteaux’s parapet, looking out into the night.  He had seen one of the Queen’s maids when he’d stepped out here, but had not really questioned it, assuming she too was taking a midnight walk.  But no.

It was Queen Anne taking a midnight walk.

She turned at his approach and he bowed.  “Your majesty,” he said.  “I apologise for disturbing you.”

“You did,” she agreed.  “But it does not always follow that it was unwelcome.  Will you walk with me?”

“It would be an honour.”

They began to walk along the parapet in silence.  D’Artagnan knew it was not his place to speak first.

“I find I cannot sleep when she is gone.”  The Queen said and he did not need to ask who ‘she’ was.  “Aramis steals the life from Bourbon-Les-Eaux when he steals her away. You do not know how many of these nights I have survived only through Constance’s kindness.”

Steal.  The word lanced through him.  D’Artagnan shivered.

“And now she has been stolen from us as well.”

“We will get justice for Constance, your majesty.”  He told her.  “We have sworn it.”

She smiled, “I do not think that it should be you who comforts me, Monsieur D’Artagnan.  You have lost far more than I.”  She looked away.  “I know she loved you more than life.”

D’Artagnan’s throat tightened and he could not reply.  They continued to walk in silence until they reached the end of the parapet, where her maid was waiting with a gown, and the Queen’s demeanour changed to formal. 

She looked politely at D’Artagnan.  “I have faith in your justice,” she said as the maid covered her shoulders.  “As I have faith in all the King’s musketeers.”


	5. Athos

  
**Early Summer, 1638**  
  
Morning  
  
No good could come of this, Athos knew, and yet he did not turn back his horse as he rode towards Bourbon-Les-Eaux.  He would keep his word, even if it was given under the duress of a child’s tantrum, to the clear displeasure of her father and in his own mistaken belief that a year would be long enough for Aramis to have forgiven him.

He was wrong.  And he was wrong to have made the promise.  But that would not stop him fulfilling it.

D’Artagnan met him on the road to warn him of the increased guard this year, to ensure the safety of the pregnant Queen, but assured him that Traville had picked only the most trusted musketeers and D’Artagnan had assigned them to positions well away from the pool.  Isabelle would not be seen and neither would…

Athos’s hand found the top of the head of the small boy pressed against his chest.

…neither would Raoul.  
  
-o-  
  
Isabelle raced towards them as soon as she spotted their approach.  She had grown tall in the year since he’d seen her last and more of her mother was apparent in her features, if you knew to look for it, but she was still far too much like Aramis.  Her dress for once was clean.  But it was still early.

“Athos!”  She cried as she threw her arms around his waist and clung on tightly.  He sighed.  Last year she had hugged him a great deal more than she ought as if she thought she could make up for her father’s coldness towards him.  He suspected that the promise she had forced him into was as much about her curiosity to meet Raoul as it was to ensure his return.  “And you did bring Raoul!  I knew you would!”

Raoul’s hand found his father’s when Isabelle leaned over him but despite his innate shyness, he didn’t shrink away.

Porthos joined them, clasping Athos’ hand and clapping him on the shoulder.  “I would ask how the domestic life is treating you, but I can see by your waistline.”  Porthos said.  “It’s a good thing you brought your sword.  You look like you need the exercise.”

A little overcrowded now, Raoul pressed nervously against his father’s leg.

Isabelle put out her hand, “would you like to see some spiders, Raoul?”  She spoke gently, obviously well used to younger children.  “I found a whole nest in those rocks over there.”

Raoul looked up at Athos, who nodded his permission. 

He and Porthos watched them go, hand in hand.

Porthos smiled fondly.  “I knew that dress wouldn’t stay clean for long.”  
  
Midday  
  
It was noon before the Queen arrived tended by a nurse and several maids.  Athos watched them from the ridge.  The swell of her stomach was still quite small but she seemed tired and merely sat on the bank as her maids brought her buckets of the mineral rich water to sponge over her skin.  Behind the royal party, a few metres away, stood one of the musketeers who had guarded the Queen on her journey here from the châteaux: Aramis.

And as if sensing Athos’ recognition of him, Aramis looked up.  Their eyes met across the distance.  He nodded in greeting.  It had been a long year since their last meeting in this place and there was a hunted look in his eyes that Athos could not remember ever seeing before, even at their most desperate hours.  Aramis said a few words to the Queen before leaving her side.  There was a momentary flash of deep concern on Anne’s face before she quickly schooled it away.

Athos glanced at the roundness of her belly.  Another of Aramis’ off-spring?  It was probably safer for him if he did not know.

It was only a minute later that a twig snapped behind him and he turned to see Aramis approach.

“Athos.”  Aramis stopped, tilted his head in greeting.

“Aramis.”

Silence. 

Athos waited.  It was, after all, Aramis who had come to him.  He should speak first.  And truly, what more could be said that they hadn’t yelled in anger nearly two years ago.

An icy hand clutched at Athos’ heart.  There was one more accusation Aramis could make and Athos feared it like he had feared nothing else.

They might have been stuck in that impasse, with a span of 5 metres and 2 years of pain, separating them if Isabelle had not run over and thrown herself at her father.

“Papa!”  She hugged him and then giggled as Aramis scooped her up onto his hip.  None of the previous bleakness was visible as he smiled at his daughter, wiped clean away by a look of utter pure love.  Athos wondered if his own face did that when he held Raoul against him.

Aramis looked at Isabelle critically.  “Tell me truly, how many smudges of dirt have appeared since I left this morning?”

She wiggled in his arms, “five!” 

He cocked a dubious eye at her and she giggled, “ten!”  She decided.  “But Raoul made some of them when he hugged me.  He’s so sweet, papa, like Miguel only not so shy.”  She twisted in his arms and pointed, “see!”

Athos watched his friend – and he had to believe they were friends still – follow Isabelle’s finger until his eyes came to rest on Raoul, small and chubby, hurrying to keep up with Isabelle.

Isabelle wriggled out of her father’s arms, grabbed his hand and pulled him over to the little boy.  “Raoul, this is my papa.”

Aramis knelt down.  “Hello, Raoul.”

Athos saw his little boy meet Aramis’ eyes and felt sharp ache.

Aramis stood up.  “He has Marie’s eyes.”

The name fell like a boulder between them.

Marie de Rohan, Madame de Chevreuse.  Raoul’s mother and Aramis’ former lover.

 _You would know better than I,_ Athos wanted to say but instead simply agreed, “yes.”

And there was that silence again.

Isabelle looked between her father and Athos and tightened her fingers around Aramis’, “Papa, can’t we-”

“My apologies,” Aramis said and there was such blackness in his eyes, “I’m neglecting my duties to the Queen and must return.”  He looked down at his daughter.  “Come on.”

“Can I not stay here, papa?”

“No.” 

“Please!  I want to stay with Athos and play with Raoul.”

“The Queen is expecting you.”  Displeasure slipped into his voice.  “She wants to see you.”

“I don’t care!”  She stared up at her father and didn’t back down at the sight of his growing anger, “just because you do not like Athos anymore does not mean I shouldn’t either!”

“This has nothing to do with Athos.”  There was note of tiredness in Aramis’ voice and Athos had the sudden intuition that this was probably something of an old argument between them.

“Yes it does!  You want me to stay away from him!”  She accused.  “And I won’t, papa!  I won’t.”

“Isabelle!”  Aramis’ voice rose sharply.  “You cannot disappoint the Queen.”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“Because she is your –” 

“Queen.”  Athos snapped loudly, sharply.

Isabelle jumped at the harshness of his voice and Aramis instinctively responded to her alarm, laying an arm about her shoulders, even as his eyes cast thanks towards Athos for preventing him from allowing his anger to push him into making a very grave mistake.

“The Queen is very fond of you, Isabelle, and you should spend some time with her.”  Athos said and the evenness of his voice surprised him.  “Raoul and I will still be here when you get back.”

The little girl looked between them again, confused and maybe a little frightened.  She clearly sensed that there was something else but was too young to recognise it.  “Promise?”

“I promise.”

She drew in a deep breath and began to walk back to the pool, pointedly ignoring her father.

Aramis looked back once when they walked away but his face was unreadable.  
  
Afternoon  
  
“Is it the king’s child?”

Porthos stopped cleaning his gun.  “He thinks it is.  That’s all that matters.”

Athos frowned.  That wasn’t the answer he wanted.  “Buckingham is dead.”

“She might have taken another lover, I suppose.”

“Aramis?”

Porthos looked over at him.  “Do you really want to know?”

Athos conceded the point. 

Porthos returned to cleaning his weapon. 

“We spoke.”  Athos said.

“Half a dozen words hardly counts.”  Porthos grinned in response to the look that Athos threw him.  “Isabelle might have mentioned it.”

Athos thought back to their stand-off on the ridge.  Aramis had come to him but he had never got the chance to speak.  Isabelle had interrupted them and then Raoul…

And they needed to talk. 

“He is still angry.”  Athos said. 

“He’s hurt.”  Porthos corrected.  “He loved her very much.”  _And he trusted you completely._ The words went unsaid as they always had been but Athos could hear them hanging accusingly in the air all the same. 

“It was his choice to leave her.”  It sounded like poor justification even to his own ears.  It was true; of course, Marie had not given away Raoul to save her marriage.  She had done so to preserve her relationship with Aramis.  But the betrayal of his lover with his best friend had been too great a wound to forgive and she had lost him anyway.

“Do you really believe that?”  There was a note of anger in Porthos’ voice.  It surprised Athos.  In all this time, he, like D’Artagnan, had stayed admirably neutral.  So much so that they had unintentionally made many of Athos’ actions since then far simpler than they should be.  His announcement that he was leaving the musketeers and resuming his life as the Comte de la Fere had been met with far less resistance from Porthos and D’Artagnan than it should.  Their fear of the thought that Aramis might feel they were taking Athos’ side if they tried to dissuade him too strongly had coloured all their actions and made it easy for Athos to dismiss them. 

“He could have forgiven her.”

“It wasn’t forgiving her that he found difficult.”  Porthos got up.  Athos recognised this.  He was removing himself before he said something he would regret.  “And it wasn’t _her_ actions that hurt him the most.”  
  
-o-  
  
“I wish you were friends with papa again.”

Athos looked up at the girl’s voice.  She stood on the edge of the blanket he had laid out so that Raoul could nap in the shade, yellow dress filthy and torn to shreds at the hem.  Her thick black hair had dried into messy curls and her face was smudged with dirt.  She reminded him of Aramis after a particularly good bar fight.

“We are still friends.”  He told her.

“That is what papa said too.”

To his surprise, Athos found comfort in that.  He patted the blanket at his side and with a smile she stepped onto it – kicking dirt up as she went, he noticed – and curled up next to him far closer than he had planned.

“I like Raoul.”

Athos smiled.  “I like him too.”

She giggled at that, because she did not know that it could be any different.  But it was a revelation to Athos.  Not that he loved his son, but that he liked him, liked the little person that he was.  
Isabelle pressed closer to him.  “Papa likes him as well.”  She clearly had her father’s gift for manipulation.  “We could all take him hunting.  You and me and papa, and Porthos and D’Artagnan too,” she looked pleadingly up at him, “like when I was four.  We always had such fun.”

Athos let himself remember, for a just a minute, what it was like riding at his friends sides, not just on those hunting trips with Isabelle, but on missions, on duty, he would be a liar if he said he did not miss it. 

“Perhaps when he is older,” Athos said.

She sighed, “it might be too late then.”

“Too late?”

She burrowed into his side.  “For you and papa to like each other again.”

He was at a loss as to what to say.  He opened his mouth to say her name but another voice cut him off.

“Isabelle!”

They both looked towards the voice.  It was Porthos.

“The Queen is asking for you.”

There was no mistaking her reluctance as she got to her feet, but she didn’t protest.  Athos knew the time was coming when she would begin to question her yearly visits here and he did not envy Aramis the choice he would ultimately have to make.  Truth or Fiction? 

Isabelle went to Porthos’ side and took his hand.  She looked back at Athos.

“Promise you will bring Raoul next year.”

“If I am able, we will certainly come.”

“Raoul wants to come back.”  Her father’s child indeed.  “I know he does.”

“Isabelle –”

Her lip trembled.  “Promise,” she insisted.  “ _Please_.”

“I promise.”  
  
Evening  
  
It was a strange kind of torture to watch them together: Raoul and Aramis and Isabelle.  They were playing in the shallows, entertaining the Queen who sat on the bank.  They looked to Athos like the family he had always imagined having when he married.  It made his heart ache and yet he should have expected a scene such as this.  Raoul had quickly become Isabelle’s shadow, trotting along behind her throughout the day, babbling away in his incomprehensible baby talk.  Of course he would find his way into the precious time that Queen shared with Aramis and Isabelle.

Athos found his eyes drawn to Aramis.  His friend looked relaxed at last, splashing and tickling the children, and it seemed Isabelle was right.  Aramis did like Raoul.  Very much.

“I will hate to disturb them.”

D’Artagnan’s voice at his shoulder made him jump.  “D’Artagnan.” 

He turned to see the younger man and Porthos mere feet from him.

“Being the Comte de la Fere has dulled your senses, Athos.”  His young friend teased.  “We have been standing here for the last five minutes.”

“You may rest assured the same cannot be said of my sword skills.”  His voice was a mild threat that D’Artagnan met only with a grin.

“Porthos and I are about escort the Queen back to the châteaux.”  D’Artagnan said.

“And Aramis?”

“Aramis is staying here.”  Porthos said in a voice that suggested their friend would be given little choice in the matter.

D’Artagnan looked at Athos.  “You should talk to him.”

“There is nothing more to be said.”  A lie, because there was, but Athos did not want to think on that.

“You could start with _‘I’m sorry.’_ ”  Porthos told him.

“Aramis did not accept my apology then; he will not accept it now.”

“You cannot know that until you offer it.”  D’Artagnan placed his hand on Athos’ shoulder.  “It has been a long and hard year without you, Athos.  We have all been changed by it.”

“He will not forgive me.”

Porthos made that huffing sound again but this time he did not walk away.  This time he stayed and let the frustration and anger he felt show clearly on his face.  Perhaps they should have done this long ago.  Perhaps the combined force of their rage would have healed things quicker.  Maybe it would have been the penance his heart had always wanted since that very moment when he had woken in the inn with Marie, naked and beautiful, at his side.

(Maybe it might have made it worse.)

And Athos knew that was what they feared.  Too afraid of pushing him further away, of giving him reason to hide in the bottom of a bottle again, they had held their tongues and allowed the gulf between their friends to go unfought against and as a consequence, unhealed. 

“What Porthos means is,” D’Artagnan translated, because while Porthos thought his huff was clear, it was not.  “Aramis forgave you a long time ago.” 

And Porthos clarified.  “But maybe he needs to _hear_ that you actually give a damn about hurting him.”  
  
-o-  
  
“Raoul is a fine boy.”

Athos’ hands stilled against his horses tack.  He did not turn to look at Aramis.  “He is.”

“Like his father.”

Athos still did not turn.  “Perhaps you mean that as a question.”  He wished he did not sound so bitter.

Silence.

Athos cursed himself.  It should not be this hard.  It should not be that a man had come to him to receive his apology.  He forced himself to turn then to see Aramis standing behind him, holding his hat to his chest.  Isabelle was at his side.  That hunted look was back in his eyes.

“Isabelle,” Aramis said, not really taking his eyes from Athos, “run back to the pool and collect your cape for Raoul.  It is a cold night.”

“Yes, papa.” 

She hurried off and as soon as she was out of sight, Aramis stepped forward.  “It was not a question.”  He said.

“I would ask it in your place.”  Athos told him and turned his attention back to tacking his horse.  He knew no good would come of goading Aramis to ask the very thing that Athos feared he would.  It would only hurt them both.  And yet he could not stop.  “You must surely wonder.”

“Athos, do not do this.”

He closed his eyes.  “Ask me.”

“No.”

“It is all there is left to say between us so ask me!”

“I will not.”

He spun about and grabbed at Aramis’ collar and screamed, “ _Ask me, damn you_!”

Aramis pushed back, anger rushing to his eyes.  “How do you know that Raoul is yours and not mine?”

Pain lanced through him.  He let go of Aramis and stumbled back.

Aramis pushed his hair back with his hand.  “I apologise,” he said, shame clear in his voice.  “I should not have asked that.”

Anger flared in Athos’ chest, as much for himself for forcing the issue, as for Aramis. “How do you know Isabelle is yours?”  It came out as a snarl.  It was cruel of course to curse Aramis with the same doubt that curled its way around his own heart during his blackest nights. 

“Because I trusted to Anne’s word,” Aramis said and his voice was so calm.  “As I believe you do.” 

Trust to a woman’s word?  Was that all?  Was that really what Aramis placed his faith in?  Athos almost staggered under the weight of it.  Trust the word of woman who lied so freely to her husband?  To her lover?

“There are other things as well.”  Aramis continued.  “Isabelle’s little toe is long and curls over just like mine.  Her whole feet are identical to my own and I do not think she would thank me for them.  I can see my mother in her eyes.”  He smiled fondly, more to himself than to Athos. “And I believe she has my smile.”   He laid a hand on Athos’ shoulder.  “Athos, you will see yourself in Raoul as he grows.”  _And you will not see me._ The words were not spoken, but he heard them all the same.  “Marie would not have lied to you.”

Athos felt the tension in his shoulders ease, spreading out from the spot where Aramis’ fingers touched him.  The warmth of them washed through him.  If his brother believed Marie then perhaps he could have faith in that.

“I’m sorry.”  The words came softly to his lips.

“Athos, I will never expect you to regret sleeping with Marie,” Aramis told him, “just as you have never asked me to regret the night I spent with Queen, even if it leads us all to the hangman’s noose.  We both gained far too much.”

“But you will allow me at least to regret the very great wound that I inflicted upon your heart.”  Athos told him.  “And upon our friendship.”

Aramis’ hand moved up, cupped against his neck.  “Only if you will allow me to forgive you.” 

Perhaps they would have embraced then, but Isabelle’s happy squeal as she returned, clutching her cape, broke them apart.

“Are you friends again?”  She demanded and didn’t wait for an answer, throwing her arms around both of their waists, before letting go and bouncing around.  She ran to the blanket where Raoul was sitting, quietly pulling the petals off a flower.  “Raoul, our papa’s are friends again and this is going to be the best week here _ever_!”  
  
Night  
  
The room that Athos had been given in the châteaux was one of the finest.  There were undoubted perks to being the son of the nobility.  Last year he had stayed in the servant’s quarters, with Porthos snoring in one ear and the sound of a rat gnawing inside the wall in the other. 

Athos lay on the bed watching his son sleep.  Raoul’s fingers twitched against the pillow.  Athos looked closer and saw…hands. 

He looked at the little boy’s feet.  Small and perfectly formed and…

Raoul’s little toe was little.  And it didn’t curl.

Athos smiled.

In fact, the foot looked much like his own.

He fell asleep holding it.


	6. Aramis

  
**Late Summer, 1643**  
  
Morning  
  
“Papa?”

Aramis felt his daughter’s head shift against his belly, but didn’t lift from its impromptu pillow.  He was lying on his back on the ridge above the pool at Bourbon-Les-Eaux with Isabelle curled sleepily at his side watching the sun rise over the trees.  She had insisted on getting up with him to watch the dawn, stumbling along at his side, rubbing her eyes and yawning and coughing before finally relenting and allowing him to carry her. Her presence was a strange mix of comfort and distraction, keeping him from the very contemplation he had come here for and yet he would not change it for all the world.  Small and warm curled against him, she reminded him simultaneously of how many years full of nights spent in tents deep in the woods that had passed without incident since Savoy and of what he would lose, far more precious than his own life, if it happened here.

And losing her had been so very much on his mind these past few weeks, that terrible shredding fear so very _real_ again after the complacency he had fallen into after the birth of a true royal heir and then the king’s death…  And in many ways it had been worse than those first few years of Isabelle’s life, when the slightest hint of her existence, in the wrong ears, would have spelled disaster for all of them, because there had been no sword, no battle he could have fought to save her from the illness stealing her life.

“Yes, _polilla_?”

“Why do we come here every year?”

It was not the first time that she had asked this.  It was unlikely to be the last because he always evaded the question.  “Do you not like Bourbon-Les-Eaux?”

“Yes, but…”  Her head dug into his rib as she shifted to look up at him.  “Can you not take me to Paris instead?  I would so love to see Paris.”

“Perhaps when you are older.”

“Next year?”  She asked hopefully.  “When I am thirteen?” 

He chuckled.  “Older than that.”

“How much older?”  She pressed.  “When I am sixteen?”

“Older.”

“When I am married?”  A hint of the good nature that she had surely inherited from himself slipped into her voice.  “Or when I

am old and grey?”

“For certain.”  He told her.

She sighed, and her chest cracked loudly as she did so, and fell silent.  Aramis smiled down at her, lifting a hand up to smooth over her thick black hair.  Soon it would not be so easy to brush aside her curiosity about their yearly visits here and he feared it.  He had learned, over the years, how skilled he was at lying.  Falsehoods would slip from his tongue into the ears of trusted friends and colleagues and cost him no effort.  The thought that he would one day lie just as naturally to Isabelle made him cold inside.

She stirred again.  “Papa?”

“Mmm?”

“Will we still come _here_ when I am old and grey?”

“You will I am sure.”

“And you?”

“I shall be in heaven waiting for you when you are old and grey.” 

She sat up.  “I don’t want you to die!”

He looked up, cursing his stupidity. He should not think too much on death.  “Everybody dies, _Escarabajo_.”  He told her.  “And it will not be for a very long time.”

Her hand strayed to his shoulder and the barely healed wound from his last battle.  “Promise?”  Her large blue eyes stared into his.

He propped himself up on his elbows.  She was old enough to know that such a promise would not be in his control – these past few weeks would surely have taught her that – and yet he sensed she would not accept any reply that came with waver about God’s will. 

But perhaps God was not so willing for him to answer because before he could speak, there was a sound of a horse’s hooves and a young boy’s voice calling out, “Issss – aaaaa – belllllle!”

A grin broke out over her face and she scrambled to her feet, cupped her hands around her mouth and yelled out in the same slow sing-song pattern: “Rrrrayyyy-oulllllllllll!”

It cost her a fit of coughing, but it was everything to hear her voice so strong again.  
  
-o0o-  
  
“…and these Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty, through Christ our Lord.  Amen.”

Aramis crossed himself before reaching for the plate of roasted fish.  He was aware of Athos at his side, quietly eating his own portion and watching this display of piety with guarded eyes.

“Isabelle looks well.”  Athos said.

Aramis hated himself for hearing the relief in Athos’ voice as a selfish thing, as a statement that she was unlikely to infect Raoul with the scarlet fever that had almost killed her.  It was born out of his own bitterness, he knew, and was not true, but his heart refused to be rational.

“Yes,” he murmured and pulled out his cross.  He kissed it.  “Praise be to God.”

Athos looked away, probably to stop himself from pointing out that his God had cursed Isabelle with the sickness in the first place and his gratitude was somewhat misplaced.  But Aramis knew in his heart that it was all part of a Plan, for himself, for Isabelle…perhaps even their friends too.  He just had to trust in it.

But Athos did not trust easily and certainly not in things he could not see. 

They had always been very different in that respect but it had never felt so…insurmountable before.  There was, he knew now, only one course he could follow and it was unlikely they would understand.

His friend was dressed fine - a true son of the nobility - and Raoul had stood tall and just as grandly at his side for all of minute before running off with Isabelle into the woods.  There was very little left of the musketeer he had once been. Aramis wondered if Athos too felt the gulf of their experiences between them.

“I almost did not bring her.”  He admitted.  “Perhaps I should not.” 

Athos lay a hand against his shoulder.  “She is strong, Aramis.”  He told him.  “And this is a place of healing.”

Perhaps…  But it was ultimately his own selfishness that brought him here.

_Philippe…_

He had never told his friends that the Queen’s second son Philippe was his own.  He guessed that they knew or at least suspected, for the boy looked very much like him and there was something in the brightness of his smile that was identical to Isabelle.

Another secret.

More lies.

When would the weight of them grow too much?  
  
Midday  
  
Aramis lay in the sun drying off after a swim with Philippe curled in his lap, almost asleep.  His son was soft and small, fitting perfectly against him. Isabelle had been all sharp bones and tangled hair when she had been this age.  He stroked the boy’s head gently and his eyes finally fluttered closed.

Anne was smiling at them from her seat in the shade.  She had not joined them in the pool – it would be considered unseemly now the king was dead – and instead played the role of Regent, relaxing with her children away from the stresses of court.  At her side was Isabelle, reluctantly consenting to the Queen brushing the tangles out of her hair.  Aramis returned the smile, eyes meeting hers and seeing the same gratitude there as he tried to express with his own: a silent thank you for these precious few days with their unacknowledged children. 

“Maman,” Louis said.  He sat on a rock a few metres away, scowling.  He had not joined them in the water, despite much coaxing on Isabelle and Raoul’s part, and had ended the matter with a sharp _I do not play with girls_.  “I want to go back to the chateaux.”

He was small boy, given to being quiet and sullen; brightening only in the company of Cardinal Mazarin and D’Artagnan.  Of the latter, it was easy to see why.  The young musketeer’s affection for the little king was evident and Louis responded to him in a way he never had his mother.  That had quickly earned D’Artagnan the position as Louis and Philippe’s personal guard.

“We will return later, Louis.”  Anne told him, barely looking up from her work and Aramis saw hurt in the boy’s eyes as he watched her curl a lock of Isabelle’s hair around her finger.  Aramis knew that she was distracted by the feel and the reality of it against her skin.  Aramis’ own hand cupped Philippe’s head lightly and understood just how deeply she was trying to map the sensation in her heart to sustain her in the long empty year ahead.  But he also knew that all Louis saw was his mother ignoring him in favour of another.

“De Tan-nan could take me.”  Louis pouted.  “Or Piedmont.”

Piedmont immediately stood to show his readiness to obey his young king but D’Artagnan shook his head at the musketeer.

“It would be rude to leave our guests.”   Anne pointed out.

Louis stood up.  “Maman, I _want_ to go!” 

The Queen finally gave him her attention.  “I do not.”  She said firmly, her tone that of one accustomed to complete obedience.

“I _will_ go!”  He snapped.  “I WILL!” 

Philippe jolted in Aramis’ arms at the noise and made a whine that threatened tears.  Aramis hushed him, stroking his back, calling him _cuervo_ and soothing him back to sleep.

Louis stomped away a few feet before sitting down again.  
  
-o0o-  
  
Porthos arrived at the pool shortly afterwards, richly dressed and looking relaxed in a way he never had as a musketeer.  Aramis hugged him with one arm, Philippe curled in his other.  He could see that marriage obviously suited him and Athos confirmed his opinion almost simultaneously as he told Porthos so.  Their friend did not deny it.

Isabelle and Raoul greeted Porthos excitedly and he scooped them both up into his arms.  The children giggled as he mock staggered under their weight and squealed as he threatened to drop them.

Isabelle’s laughter got caught in her chest and she dissolved into hacking coughs.  Porthos quickly put her down and the Queen flew over to her side, terror on her face.  Isabelle accepted the comfort, leaning into the Queen’s arms in way she never had before, as she struggled to breathe and Aramis forced himself to hold back, allowing Anne this rare moment of truly being her mother.  His arms tightened around Philippe instead.  Behind them stood Louis, staring at his mother, lips pressed together in a hard line.  At his side was Raoul, who looked frightened and Aramis saw Athos take his hand.  The boy pressed against his father’s side.

Aramis felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see Porthos offering his silent support.  He smiled at his old friend.

Finally Isabelle’s coughs petered out and her colour returned.  Anne helped her walk back to the bankside to sit on the rugs and cushions laid out there.  She tumbled down with the air of someone who could not bear to stand any longer.

“Papa?” 

Aramis settled at her side, juggling Philippe so that the boy was nestled between them.  “Yes, _polilla_?”

She looked directly at Porthos.  “If Porthos has children,” she asked with a grin, “will they come to here too?”  
  
 Afternoon  
  
Aramis settled back against the rough bark of a tree and watched the three boys playing together.  Philipe was almost as tall as Louis was, despite the two years between them, strong and bold.  Raoul was a fine boy, kind and well-mannered and as comfortable in the company of adults as he was in his peers. 

“Papa?”

He looked around to see Isabelle standing at his side.  “Yes, _polilla_?”

She sat down next to him and leaned into his side.  She looked over at the boys.  “Why doesn’t Louis like me?”

Aramis sighed.  How could he explain?  The boy clearly sensed that his mother did not love him as she loved Philippe.  No matter how careful Anne was, something of the tenderness she felt for the children she had conceived in love and desire slipped out, and it was all too glaringly obvious sometimes when she looked at Louis, a child born out of duty, that it was not there.

Louis had probably accepted that Philippe would always be the favourite, but to see his mother with Isabelle… And to be so deposed by a _stranger_ …

“He is jealous.”

He watched her absorb that.

“Why would he be jealous of me?”  She asked.  “He’s a king.”

“Because you are all the things that he will never be, Isabelle.  Strong and brave and loyal and –” 

She waited, “and?”

“And loved, _polilla._ ”

“Papa, of course he’s loved!”  She sounded indignant.

“But there are times, like today, when he does not feel it.”  Aramis thought of his own life.  He had never questioned Adele Bassett’s leaving him and yet he now knew she had been murdered.  He had simply accepted what he had believed to be her rejection of him because he had not expected to receive any less.  There were so many other moments too…  “Sometimes it is hard to see that you are loved and easy to see that you are not.”

In the distance, Raoul scooped up a giggling Louis and spun him around.  Isabelle watched them, obviously thinking over his words.

“Papa?”  She asked eventually.

He smiled, “yes, _libélula_?”

“You know I love you, don’t you?”

He chuckled and put an arm around her.  “Yes, _polilla_ , I believe you love me almost as much as I love you.”

“Isabelle?!”  It was Raoul, beckoning her over. “Come and play!”  He was still holding the young king and perhaps that was why Louis didn’t protest the suggestion that a girl joined them.

She got up with a grin.  “I will try to be more kind to Louis,” she said as she hugged him goodbye, “so that he knows he is loved.”

Aramis watched her run a few steps before she stopped and turned. 

“But papa?”  She looked sad.  “I wish we had gone to Paris instead.”  
  
-o0o-  
  
“You have not told them yet.”

Aramis closed his eyes at D’Artagnan’s words.  “I had thought to tell them Friday.”  Their last day.

 _Coward_.  Was that D’Artagnan’s unspoken word he had heard or his own?

“You think they will not understand.”  It was not a question.

Aramis’ hand found his cross.  “Do you?”

D’Artagnan looked away briefly and then focused on Aramis again.  “They were not there when Isabelle was sick.”  He replied. 

Aramis recognised that his own question had gone unanswered and accepted it.  And D’Artagnan was right, of course.  Athos and Porthos had not been there when the message came.  But D’Artagnan had.  Aramis would be forever grateful to him for riding out at his side through the rain to Mathilde’s farmstead, arriving to find his daughter barely conscious with fever and struggling to breathe.

Only D’Artagnan had witnessed the force of Aramis’ prayers, the depth of his belief…

And yet it would be dishonest to allow D’Artagnan to believe that the choice he had made had been born out of gratitude for the Almighty sparing Isabelle’s life.

“I was tired of soldiering before that, D’Artagnan.”  He bent his head, feeling the stitches of his shoulder wound pull.  “Isabelle’s illness merely hastened a decision I had already made in my heart.  I should have left the musketeers years ago as Athos did.  I should have taken Isabelle and gone with Marie when she fled Paris.”  He saw D’Artagnan frown but chose to ignore it.  He wanted to speak honestly because the lies were choking him, even if that truth was a selfish, callous thing that wished Athos’ son away from him. 

“You stayed because it was the right.”  He sounded like he believed that.  Perhaps he did.

“When we rode out here, Isabelle said to me that everything is different now and it is.”  Aramis told him.  “And now it is right that I join the church.”

D’Artagnan put his hand on his shoulder.  “You will make a fine abbe, Aramis.”   
  
-o0o-  
  
Athos and Raoul were talking behind Aramis and Anne as they sat in front of the royal tent and Aramis found he could not help listening in.  Raoul was a lively boy and could often draw far more words out of his father than any other person alive ever could.  It amused him to hear it. 

Isabelle came running up, hair wild and dress covered in dirt.  At least he could blame Porthos for that as his friend had been instructing the girl in the use of the foil.  “Papa?”  She said, sounding breathless.  “Can Raoul and I show Louis and Philippe the eagle’s nest?”

They had found the nest the day before, high up on the cliff above the pool. 

Raoul scrambled to his feet, clearly eager.  “Can I go, Papa?”  He asked Athos, who nodded his agreement.

“You must ask the Queen, Isabelle.”

“Oh.”  She turned to Anne and curtsied badly.  “Your majesty, could I show Louis and Philippe an eagle’s nest?”  She had never called Anne by her name, despite being asked to on many occasions.  Aramis knew it made Anne sad.  “The eagles have a baby that’s as big as they are and Papa said it will fly soon and I so want to see it again before it does.”

“Is it far away?”  She asked.

“It’s up on the cliff but it’s not far really.”

“Do not take Philippe, he is too little.”  Anne said.  “But I am sure that Louis would like to see the nest.”

Louis, who was sitting once again as far away as he could, got up and came over.  Raoul took his hand but when Isabelle went to take the other he pulled it away.  Aramis’ jaw clenched to see it but clearly Isabelle remembered her promise and she smiled at Louis.  Raoul took her hand instead and they both giggled.  Then she tugged on Raoul’s arm and began pulling him away.

“Do not go too close to the edge, _Cucaracha_!”  Aramis called after them.

She spun round and cried out: “Oh, Papa, I am not!” 

He stood up, removed his hat and bowed reverently.  “ _Mi pequeña cucaracha_.”

At his side, Anne was laughing.

“Papa!”

Raoul pulled on the hand that he held and she grinned before breaking into a run again.  Half way up the ridge she stopped.

“Papa?”  She called out.  “If I _were_ a cockroach, would you still love me?”

Anne laughed even harder and it was lovely to hear.

Aramis offered another bow.  “For certain,” he told her.  
  
-o0o-  
  
Aramis watched Porthos, Athos and D’Artagnan sparring on the bankside and considered joining the fray.  Anne and Philippe had gone into the tent, where her maids were attending to them, and that left him only with the air and the trees and the birds.

And it was the third day here and nature had begun to tire him. 

Screaming spilt the air.  His heart froze in his chest.

“PPPPAAAAPPPPPAAAAAAAAA!”  The cry echoed around the pool.

_Isabelle!_

He searched desperately for the sound and his eyes caught on movement at the top of the cliff.  Isabelle was lying at the very edge, clutching at the soil but then the earth simply…gave away.

Her body plummeted down.  Aramis had seen men fall in battle, had seen lovers die in his arms, but nothing, none of it compared to even a second of this.

Isabelle hit the water with a harsh smacking sound, sending up a gush of water and disappeared.

Aramis was barely aware of running into the pool, his friends a mere step behind him.  He swam over to the spot where he had seen her go down and dove under.

_Hail Mary, Mother of God…_

The mineral rich water was milky, a haze of blue white against his eyes.  Shapes and shadows reigned around him, unclear and vague, and his heart lurched in horror at the thought that he would never see her in this gloom.

_Pray for us sinners…_

His lungs forced him to the surface, gasping for breath, but as soon as he had choked down several gulps of air, he went under again.

_Now and at the hour of…_

_No God no._

A shape lay on the bottom of the pool, large and dark.  He lunged for it and his hands met cloth.  As soon as he had gripped it, he kicked up for the top and broke the surface with a gasp. 

He heard Athos yell, “he has got her!”  But it was distant against the terror clutching at his chest.  Isabelle hung limply in his arms, unconscious, and it was all he could do to swim for the bank.  He could hear Athos and Porthos yelling, Anne crying hysterically but none of it mattered.

Aramis collapsed to his knees on the bank, gasping for breath, and laid Isabelle down.  He put his head against her chest and felt a rush of relief.  Her heart still beat, but it sounded rapid and inhuman, and there was no movement of her chest…

“Isabelle!”  He shook her, pulled her up against his chest, stroking and slapping her back as he did when a coughing fit stole her breath.  “ISABELLE!”

She made a choking sound and vomited over his chest, a rush of milky water and bile, then coughed violently before vomiting again.  He could feel her trembling and gasping and hugged her tightly against him.  Fear and terror still clawed at Aramis’ heart as he pressed kisses to her damp head and murmured a jumbled mix of _Ava Maria_ and Spanish against her hair.

Porthos knelt at their side and carefully wrapped his fine cape around Isabelle.  Anne joined him, arms reaching for her daughter, uncaring of who saw her tears.  Aramis allowed her to her cradle Isabelle to her, too weak with his own relief to think of propriety and he leaned into her warmth himself.

He heard Raoul’s voice in the distance screaming, “Papa!  Papa!”

The little boy ran up, tears running down his cheeks, and all but threw himself at Athos.  Athos pulled the boy up into his arms and clutched him to him.

“Isabelle fell, papa!”  He sobbed out.  “And I could not…”  His breath hitched and hiccupped.  “Papa I tried to…” 

“Hush, Raoul.”  He murmured.  “She is safe now.”

“But Papa it was Louis!”  He cried out.  “Louis said he hated Isabelle and he pushed her away _so hard_ and… and she slipped and fell and…and…” Another sob wracked him and Athos rubbed at his back to sooth him.  “I was _so_ angry that I yelled at him and he ran away into the woods and..and… Papa, I don’t know where he went and I do not care!”  
  
-o0o-  
  
The search for Louis had been brief but Aramis took no part in it.  The boy had apparently only stormed off a few yards from the cliff edge before sitting down to sulk.  D’Artagnan and Piedmont had found him quickly.

Aramis stayed with his daughter in the tent and had tried not to think to bitterly of Anne, clearly worried for her missing son and unable to bring herself to be close to Isabelle until he was found. He tried not to think to bitterly of Louis either, tried to find the sympathy he had felt mere hours ago, but there was too much anger and fear in his sinful heart.

He could hear his friends, through the fabric, talking about finding Louis. They sounded distant, probably over 30 feet away, but closer still was the sound of Anne’s voice.  He could see her shadow through the tent, two others at her side, one tall and well formed, Piedmont, the other smaller and probably one of the nursemaids, and in the centre of them, the smallest shape of all, Louis.

Aramis stroked Isabelle’s hair as she dozed and listened to Anne trying to explain to Louis what he had done was wrong. Aramis knew that the boy was too young to understand.

The conversation ended abruptly at the little boy’s harsh declaration, “I hate Isabelle and I hate _you_!” 

_I hate Isabelle._

The words sliced into his heart like a blade.

There was sharp slapping sound and then a second of silence before Anne gave a little cry of horror over what she done.  Louis dissolved into sobs and then the only sounds were of Anne hushing him.

It felt as if the knife twisted so tearing was the fear.  Aramis knew there was no going back from this.

_I hate Isabelle._

Louis’ voice rang in Aramis’ head.

…As he feared it rang in Piedmont’s…

Aramis knew Piedmont to be a good man and loyal musketeer…but he had witnessed far too much already.

Aramis’ hand found his cross.

“Aramis.”

Athos stood in the door of the tent.  There was a darkness on his features, a deep weight, that Aramis had not seen there since Raoul was born.  And Aramis knew he understood what must happen.

“You heard the king.”  Aramis asked.

“Yes.”

“Tell me there is another way, Athos.”

“I cannot.”  He stepped into the tent.  “But you should not do this alone.”

Isabelle coughed and drew his attention back to her.  “Isabelle?”

She smiled sleepily, “yes, papa?”

He took her hand in his and hoped to one day have the courage to tell her of what this choice really meant for her.  He hoped she would forgive him for it.  He knew that Anne never would.  “Shall we go to Paris, _polilla_?”

And she smiled so brightly at him he could almost convince himself that it was absolution.  
  
Evening  
  
Aramis checked over the horses tack.  Anne stood at his side, her eyes full of desperation.  He would hate himself for this in the years that would follow, he knew, but that would not change his mind. 

“Please do not do this.”  She begged.  “I will send Louis away.  He will never come here again.”

“He is the king.”  Aramis stated and how could he make her see how dangerous that made the child’s jealousy?  “Even now, he is king and he will soon realise the power that he holds over grown men.  Men who will stop at nothing to curry favour with him in the hope of reward when he comes of age.”  He moved to Isabelle’s horse.  “That day is coming.”

“He is a small boy, Aramis, and I am Regent.”

“That will matter little to those who wish to gain power, as you yourself have learned.”  Aramis told her.  He wanted to tell her of his suspicions about Cardinal Mazarin, warn her to keep Louis away from him…  But she would just dismiss him as a jealous lover and it would do no good.  He turned to look into her eyes. “We cannot risk coming here again.”

She paled at his words.  “Please, Aramis.”  She clawed at his arm.  “Do not take her away.” There was a terrible grief in her voice.    But it was nothing to the grief he had felt watching Isabelle fall.  “You are too good and too honourable to do this.”

Was he?  Mother of God, he did not know anymore…

“Louis will not forget this day.  He will not forget what his anger drove him to and he will not forget what it cost him.  And if he ever learns who Isabelle really is...”  He laid a hand against her shoulder.  “All it would take is one word from him in the wrong ear…” 

 “I would not let that happen, Aramis!”

“You would be powerless to stop it!”  The rage ripped from him and he drew breath and continued more evenly. “I am truly sorry.”

“You will never see Philippe!”  She threatened, a cruel and desperate act, but all she had.

It cut deep, as she knew it would, for he loved his little raven haired son as deeply and as completely as he loved Isabelle and the thought of losing him forever... 

But in truth, beyond the few days here, Philippe was part of Anne’s world, not his.  Nothing would change that, no matter how many years they came here.  Just as Anne would never, truly, be anything more than a visitor in Isabelle’s life.

Aramis closed his eyes.  “Then know that I understand the pain I have caused.” He saw her face soften.  “Should Philippe ever learn who I am to him, I pray that he understands.”

“Aramis,” Athos interrupted them, Raoul in his arms.  The boy had barely let his father go since he had returned from the search.  “Stay until morning.”

Anne searched his face, clearly hoping he would listen to his friend.  “I cannot.”

Behind Athos came Porthos carrying Isabelle.

“Papa, tell Porthos I can ride my own horse!”  She sounded happy, untouched by the darkness around them.  Aramis wanted her to keep hold of that forever.

“He knows that quite well, _polilla_.”  Aramis said as he pulled up her hood, blinkering her view of the world and concealing from her the grief that Anne was unable to hide. 

Anne stood still, tears welling in her eyes, and as Aramis watched one streaked down her cheek.  He ached to brush it away but forced himself to ignore it.  He got up onto his horse.  Porthos put Isabelle into the saddle in front of her father before climbing onto the back of Isabelle’s white mare.  They turned their mounts ready to ride out but D’Artagnan stepped out of the shadows and blocked their path.  He held Philippe in his arms. 

Aramis took one last look at his beautiful son before he spurred his horse and rode away.  
  
Night  
  
Mathilde stood looking at Aramis with tears in her eyes.   “You are going to take her away as suddenly as you brought her.”  She said bitterly.  “You do not think to ask.”

“I do not have time.”  He told his sister but did not look up from gathering Isabelle’s few possessions and packing them into a bag.  “Not then, not now.  I am sorry.”

“Where will you go?”

“I am to join a convent.  The nuns there will take care of her.”

“I take her care of her.”

“I know.”  He put his hands on hers and looked into her eyes.  “But she is not safe here anymore.”

Fear filled her eyes. “Who is she, Aramis?”  She asked fearfully.

“If any of the king’s men come here, acting on his behalf or on the Regent’s, tell them that Isabelle died of her fever.  Ask Miguel to disturb the earth under the ash tree and put up a cross for a grave.  Visit it as often as –”

“Aramis!”  She demanded, cutting off his instructions. “Who is this child?”

“I cannot tell you.”  He closed the bag and slung it over his shoulder.

“You made me a promise that one day you would.”

“And I will.”

“Aramis…Rene…”  She put her hand on his arm.  “I need to know who I am protecting with my life and the lives of my own children.”

He drew breath and saw another road of lies ahead, long and twisted and bitter…  Perhaps today, he would choose not travel it. 

“She is my daughter,” he told her, “but she is also the daughter…of the Queen.”


	7. Isabelle

**And a final winter night…**   
  
**December, 1649**   
  
Sunset

_**“…and I shall wait, as I always have, with patience and with hope…”** _

  
Raoul pulled his horse to a stop.  Isabelle halted her mount as well and the young impatient stallion whinnied out his frustration and chewed on his bit.  She patted the creature’s neck but he shook his head, refusing to be soothed.  He had been enjoying the hard pace.

“We should go the rest of the way on foot,” Raoul said and dismounted. 

Isabelle frowned.  “Why?”

Raoul scanned the forest.  “Because…”  His eyes searched keenly, “…that is what Father would do.”

Isabelle got off her own her horse, frowning at the intense concentration on his face.  He looked as if he expected a hoard of marauders to come riding out of the gloom.  But then he did not know this place as she did.  His memories must be almost gone.

“We are not soldiers creeping onto a battlefield, Raoul.”  She reminded him.  “We are here by invitation.”

“You are, perhaps.”  Despite the five and a half years separating them, Raoul was barely half a head shorter than Isabelle and she suspected that advantage would soon be lost. 

“I am sure that covers my…”  She smiled at him and said meaningfully, “guardian.” 

Raoul coloured and busied himself with his horses bridle.  He had refused to let her come here alone, quoting the lack of propriety in a woman travelling without a guard to protect her honour.  He had pulled himself up to his full height, reed-thin and all scrawny arms and legs, as he demanded to be allowed to accompany her and defend her as he was sure her father would want, if he knew.  She had wanted to giggle and remind him that she was an excellent shot, with pistol and musket, and she could still best him with the sword and that she would travelling in the guise of a man so her honour was quite safe.  But she could not be sure that Raoul’s mention of her father was not a veiled threat and she could not risk Raoul going to Aramis.

Isabelle was sure her father would understand and she was quite certain that he would have allowed her come here and would not have insisted on a guardian – Aramis had no qualms about her ability to defend both herself and others – but he would have been…disappointed.  And she could not bear that.

She was disappointed in herself but she could not change what she had done. 

**_“Dearest Isabelle…”_ **

And she could not forget what she had read.

“I do not think we have far to walk.”  Raoul said.

“We do not.”  Isabelle agreed and she took a deep breath, savouring the smell of the wet loam beneath their feet.  “I know where we are.  I remember.”  
  
-o-  
  
Isabelle had fallen several paces behind Raoul, lost in the thoughts of times passed.  It had been many years since she last set foot here and yet the memories were so fresh, so clear.  The trees were bare now and it seemed as if the spidery branches were clawing at the darkening sky above her head.  Patches of snow lay around and the dirt between was little more than frozen mud but she could still see it in her head, lush and green, full of buzzing insects and the sounds of birdsong. 

_“Papa?”_

_“Yes,_ polilla?”

_“Why do birds sing different songs?”_

_“For the same reason you are both my moth and_ mi polilla, _Isabelle.”_

A twig snapped loudly.

Raoul looked back at her, with an apologetic smile, and she began to walk again. 

Isabelle saw the thick knot of trees she and Raoul used to climb and remembered the hot afternoons spent lying on the branches listening to the voices and the laughter that used to carry on the wind to the very top.

_“You’ve grown careless, Athos.  Your skills have dulled.”_

_“You will find that neither my skills nor my sword have dulled.”_

They walked on passed the ridge where Constance’s name was carved, the wound in the bark healed to a scar now, much like the one in D’Artagnan’s heart had.  Isabelle stopped and ran her finger along the groove.  She could barely remember now what Constance face looked like and had all but forgotten the sound of her voice…

_“Isabelle d’Herblay, have you torn your dress already?”_

There was too much of Sister Margarita’s disapproval in the memory and Isabelle sighed.  She lifted her hand to her mouth and kissed the tips of her first two fingers before pressing them to Constance’s name.

Then she began walking again, along the rocky outcrop.  Isabelle looked down at her feet.  There was too much snow on the ground to read the disturbance of the soil but she hoped the footprints of her father’s swordfights with his friends were still there.

“Isabelle?”  Raoul’s voice was soft.

She looked up.  Raoul was pointing down at the pool.  She followed the boy’s finger to see a robed figure sitting on rock at the water’s edge.  Her heart felt like it turned over in her chest. 

“I want to do this alone.”  She told him, equally softly.  “Please, Raoul.”  She added when she saw his reluctance on his face.

He nodded.

She looked down at the woman who sat so still, so alone…  Throughout all the years away, Isabelle had always felt like this place was waiting for her, and only her, and now she knew that it was.  
  
  
-o-  
  
 _ **“…and I do not think I can bare the weight of another fruitless journey to Bourbon-Les-Eaux, Isabelle, so now I must beg you: please come back to me…”**_  
  
Isabelle’s feet found the narrow path down to the water’s edge without her having to look for it.  She kept her tread light, hand on the pummel of her sword to stop it from clanking against her pistol, and walked with her eyes fixed on that silent figure.

The woman sat with her head bowed, her back to Isabelle’s approach, with the hood of her robe pulled up to hide her face.  The robe looked startlingly familiar and Isabelle wavered, stopping a few yards away, feet frozen in place.

_“If I came to your palace, your majesty, could I dance in the ballroom?”_

_“Perhaps when you are grown, Isabelle.”_

She had missed the summers at Bourbon-Les-Eaux, even though she had loved the visits to Paris that her father had replaced them with, and she had missed playing here with Porthos and D’Artagnan and laughing with Athos and chasing around with Raoul and swimming and camping with her father but…she had barely spared much of that longing for Queen Anne.

The guilt was sharp and bright.

“Your majesty?”

The robed figure turned and gave a little cry.  She stood up and the hood slipped from her head and Isabelle could see it was indeed the Queen.  It was difficult to believe even her own eyes.  Queen Anne was waiting here for her, just as she had wrote she would. 

But then the Queen’s face fell as she stared at Isabelle, eyes full of bitter disappointment and sorrow. Isabelle felt like a stone lodged in her chest.

She should not have come.

She would have turned to leave had the Queen not drawn herself up, and said with regal grace: “What is the meaning of this intrusion, monsieur?”

Monsieur…

Isabelle looked down at her doublet and britches and then tore the hat from her head and shook her hair free.  “Mademoiselle,” she corrected and heard her voice waver.

The Queen gave another cry and trembled.  “Isabelle?”  Her voice was full of hope.

She curtsied awkwardly, “yes, your majesty.”

The Queen hurried over to stand in front of her.  “Isabelle,” she murmured, studying her face with unguarded joy.  Isabelle felt gauche under the scrutiny.  “I fear I shall I wake up.”  Her hand came up and hovered and then fell back at her side as if her courage had deserted her.  “I had almost lost hope that you would come.”

“I…I would…”  There was something desperate in the Queen’s eyes and it frightened her.  “I could not disobey a royal command.”

“I did not ask as your Queen.”  She smiled almost wonderingly at her.  “You are taller than me now…”

Isabelle bowed her head. 

“…and so pretty.”

Mostly the sisters said she looked like her father, _“and just as wild too, God love you.”_

“Yes, your majesty,” she replied, because she felt she ought to make some contribution.

The woman looked sad, “I am not the Queen to you, Isabelle.”

Isabelle curtsied hurried, “yes…Regent.”

A look of utter devastation filled the Queen’s face.  “You do not know.”  She turned away from Isabelle.  “Do you?”

Isabelle fought down the confusion threatening to overwhelm her.  “I do not understand, Regent.”

“D’Artagnan never gave you the letters, did he?”  There was anger in her voice.

The letters…

“He did.”  Isabelle remembered them all.  Each folded paper that D’Artagnan had brought to her, in secret, over the years, with their royal seals and her own name written so beautifully on them.  “But I took every one to Papa.”  Unopened.  Her father had held that first letter in his hands, with such darkness in eyes, and then offered it back.  “He said I could read them, but if I trusted him then I would let him keep them until I was old enough and then he would give them back.”  She had entrusted him with every one since…with almost every one since…

The Queen had gone so still.

“Papa was away when D’Artagnan delivered your last letter.”  She admitted, “and I…I…felt old enough.  So I read it.”  Every pain filled and longing word to a child who had seemingly forgotten about her.   “I did not know you were asking me to meet you here in them.  And I would have come, your majesty, if I had known.”  She looked desperately at the woman’s back.  A terrible grief tore at her heart. “I promise.”

The Queen’s head rose, but still she did not turn back to Isabelle.  

“I am so sorry that you waited here, every summer,” she told her.  “I wanted to come back but Papa was so afraid of this place after I fell from the cliff.”  She could see it now, the fear hidden in her fearless father’s eyes, every time she spoke of Bourbon-Les-Eaux.  Fear…and something else, something she was old enough now to recognise.  Longing…

Regret…

It hurt to think of this woman, who had only ever shown her kindness and love, waiting here, summer after empty summer, for a growing child who never came.  She had never realised, until she read the Queen's letter, just how much she loved her.

"But I came as soon as I knew, your majesty, because you were always so kind to me and I wanted you to know that I missed you too."

"Kind..."  Her voice echoed bitterly and the Queen finally turned at last.  “Aramis never told you.” 

Isabelle’s heart clenched painfully at the sight of the tears staining Anne’s cheeks.

“He never told you,” she continued, “that I am your mother.”

She stared at the Queen and it felt like her chest was constricted by the tightest of corsets so laboured was every breath she struggled to take in.  She backed away, suddenly dizzy and when Anne’s hand came out to steady her, she turned and fled.  
  
-o-  
  
Isabelle ran into the darkened forest, dimly aware of Raoul calling her name.  The trees looked so different without the leaves, gnarled and unfriendly, and the blackness of the night was oppressive without the glow of the moon over head but she did not stop.

When she finally stumbled to a halt, she found herself in the curve of a moss covered rocky outcrop.  Her feet had found the place her heart knew to be safe.

This was where Porthos set up the camp every year, because it was sheltered and concealed and close to a spring.

_“When I am an abbe, we will stay in the chateaux.”_

_“But papa, I like camping in the woods.  It is the best part.”_

She clapped her hands to her ears, because she didn’t want to hear her father’s voice right now.  But this place was too full of memories – happy, carefree memories, she had always believed – and she could not help remembering.

_“Yes, papa, but…everything is so different now.”_

_“That is the way of all things,_ Escarabajo.”

No.

“ _Do not go too close to the edge_ , Cucaracha!” 

No.

“ _Do not grip so tight_ , polilla; _your hand should be loose_.”

No. No.  No.

“ _Papa, why do you call me_ una polilla? _I am not a moth_!”

And he had smiled at her sadly, “ _A moth is a butterfly who is forced to hide its beauty away from the world.  As you are.”_

_“I am not hiding.”_

_“You are and you will understand that one day, Isabelle.”_

“Papa.”  She said aloud and began to cry.  
  
Moonrise  
  
Time passed and the silvery glow from the rising full moon began to cast shadows and shapes over the camp.  Familiar shadows, comforting shapes…  She had passed many nights in this place and each one felt like an old friend.

But all too soon, the chill of the bitter winter night began to leech into Isabelle’s bones.  She knew she ought to stand up, get off the frozen ground, but she felt too numb, too raw to do anything other than hunch against the rock.

A twig snapped behind her and she spun about, ready to tell Raoul to leave her alone for a while, but the words died on her lips.

Four shadowed figures stood at crest of the dell.

Isabelle stood up. 

The men had probably been drawn by the sounds of her heedless flight into the woods, like hawks focusing on weakened prey, and like those vicious birds, they too would show no mercy. 

And she had laughed at Raoul for fearing this place…

Isabelle drew her sword.

One of the men came forward. 

She had successfully fought two opponents at once in the past but never three…

The man was still walking towards her.

…and four was –

A shaft of moonlight hit the figure. 

She saw…

Her sword, faltered, felt suddenly heavy in her hands. 

Her lips moved almost numbly.  “Papa?”

“Yes, _polilla_.”

Her blade fell at her feet and she ran into his arms.  
  
-o-  
  
Isabelle pressed her face into Aramis’ cloak and closed her eyes.  She didn’t understand how he came to be here.  Perhaps he wasn’t.  Perhaps she had lost her mind and he was just one of the memories that seemed to haunt this place.

But he felt so real.

“Papa…”  She lifted her head to see the other musketeers crowding around.  “You found me.”

“I will always find you, Isabelle.”

She barely heard him explaining that Athos had returned from Paris early to find his son had gone to the convent at Lorraine.  An urgent dispatch from Sister Evangelista had arrived soon after, begging his assistance.  She had found Isabelle’s letter from the Queen and had been unable to stop the girl from riding out with a young man.   
Athos had sent servants to alert Aramis and Porthos and the three of them had ridden out just as the sun began to set.

“Just like old times.”  Porthos put in.

D’Artagnan had accompanied the Queen to Bourbon-Les-Eaux and met them on the road but the four had arrived too late to anything other than watch from a distance as the Queen spoke to Isabelle.

“I am sorry, Isabelle.”  Aramis said. “It should not have been this way.”

“Is it true, Papa?”  She asked and pulled away from him.  “Is the Queen my mother?”

He met her eyes.  “Yes.”

_**“…my body may visit the beautiful waters once a year, but my heart resides there always, in Bourbon-Les-Eaux, with the memories of you…”** _

The words, her _mother’s_ words, whispered to her and she turned her back on him because she could not think of her mother’s sorrow and look at him.  “And that is why we came here.”

“Yes.”  His voice was very close.  “I did not intend to deceive you.”

She drew a shaky breath.  “I know.”  But that did not make it right.  She felt his hand rest on her shoulder and she turned her head to look at him.  “Father,” his face fell at her formality, “please…I do not want to talk to you now.”  And she turned her face away again so that she would not see the sadness on his face.  
  
-o-  
  
“You should not blame your father.”  Athos’ voice came from behind her and Isabelle picked up her pace.  “He did what he thought was right.”

“To save your life,” Porthos continued, sounding a little out of breath, “and the Queens, and ours.”

She stopped, “yours?”

“King’s tend to get a little executioner happy when they find out someone’s been sleeping with their wives.”  Porthos’ grin was wide in the moonlight.  “And I wanted my head to stay where it was.”

Despite the sorrow clawing at her heart, Isabelle found a small smile bubble up.  Porthos could always do that and she loved him for it.  “Papa does not deserve you, Porthos.”

“I’ve tried telling him that.”

“Everything Aramis did was to protect you.”  Athos said.

“We stopped coming here, Athos!”  She cried.  “But she didn’t.  She came here and she waited and she waited and I did not come!”   She began walking again.  “How is that protecting me?”

“Aramis could not risk bringing you here again."  Athos said.  "Louis may have just been a boy but he is also a king and his jealousy of you was dangerous.  He knew your name, your father's name.  It would have been easy for anyone at court to discover your aunt’s home.”  Athos’ voice was grave.  “Aramis could not risk Louis suspecting the truth.”

“Kings and their executioners, Isabelle.”  Porthos reminded her.  “Even boy king brothers.”

Brothers...  She felt the weight already crushing her increase.  "How is not telling me who my mother is protecting me?"

“I understand that you are angry.”

“I think…”  She sighed.  “I think I will be angry later, Athos, but now I just feel sad.”  She stopped at the ridge above the pool.  At the water’s edge stood D’Artagnan and a lady in waiting and between them was the Queen.  “For myself and for my…my mother.”  
  
-o-  
  
 _ **“…and the page fell open on Luke 9:16 and the story of Jesus feeling the five thousand with five loaves and two fishes.  I could not but think of you, Isabelle, and those precious days we spent at Bourbon-Les-Eaux.  For if they are all that I shall ever have of you, I pray that like the small morsels our Lord offered the hungry masses they will be enough.”**_  
  
The Queen watched Isabelle approach with a terrible hope in her eyes.  Isabelle’s legs felt weak beneath her as if they might give out at every step.

Finally they stood face to face.

“Maman?”

“Isabelle!”  The cry was one of pure joy as she pulled her daughter to her and held her tight.  
  
Dawn  
  
Aramis stood on the ridge, silhouetted against the pinkish glow of the approaching sunrise.  Isabelle saw him there, watching, every time she looked up from her mother.  Sometimes with Athos or Porthos at his side, once with Raoul, but he made no move to join them.

Perhaps he thought he was unwelcome.

Perhaps he was.

Isabelle only knew that she was glad he kept his distance.

The queen had asked her many questions about the missing years of her life as the bright moon travelled across the sky.  She seemed pleased that the nuns had taken good care of her, that her father had educated her in more than just the sword and the musket, that she now wore a dress for a whole day without so much as a single smudge.

“You were always covered in dirt.”

“I camped in forest,” she smiled, “and Aunt Matilde would only pack me one change of clothes.  I do not think I was completely to blame.”

Anne had laughed and promised to bring a set of fine clothes in the summer.

Her mother spoke softly of her sons – Isabelle’s brothers – but in many ways that was too much and Isabelle found her eyes straying back up to her father.

Anne’s words stilled on her lips.

Isabelle looked back at her mother. 

She laid her hand against Isabelle’s shoulder.  “Go to him.”  
  
-o-  
  
“Papa?”

Her father turned at her voice.  He always looked so sombre in his abbe’s cloth and now even more so.

“I wish you had told me.  Not then, I know I was too little then."  Isabelle told him.  "But I have not been a little girl for several years, papa.”

“I…did not know where to begin.”

 _At the beginning,_ she wanted to say, because she must have had one.  All people did. 

“I am sorry.”  He told her. 

She looked at him.  Athos and Porthos and D’Artagnan…  They had all aged in the last few years, but little of that had ever appeared to mar her father’s face.  Until now.  “It is done, papa, for good or for ill.”

He looked away from her, eyes falling on Anne.  “It has been too long, Isabelle, since I thought of myself as a good man.”

The admission hung between them.

Finally, she held out her hand.  “Come, papa.  I want to watch the sun rise with you and maman,” and she offered him a broken and tremulous smile, “and next year, we will all watch it here, with... with Philippe…”  
  
  
-Fin-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes on the text (for the benefit of those not so familiar with the books):  
>  **Chapter One –**  
>  The Bourbon region of France really does have a healing thermal bath dating back centuries.  
> In the books, Constance is Anne’s trusted Lady in Waiting.  
>  **Chapter Three –**  
>  Constance does act as a go-between for the Queen and Buckingham.  
> Dumas makes a point of Buckingham’s resemblance to Aramis and D’Artagnan does mistake him for the musketeer in low light.  
> I wrote Aramis as a kiss-on-the-mouth type of parent because I can totally see that.  
>  **Chapter Four –**  
>  The Duke of Buckingham was assassinated in the book (and in real life.)  
> Milady does poison Constance.  
>  **Chapter Five –**  
>  Madame de Chevreuse, Aramis’ lover in the books, is Raoul’s mother and Dumas take the time to write both Athos and Aramis speaking of the night he was conceived. Dumas was constrained by polite 19th century society but he successfully makes the knowing reader question Raoul’s parentage.  
> Athos does leave the Musketeers and resumes his life as the Comte de la Fere.  
> King Louis XIV was born in September, 1638  
>  **Chapter Six –**  
>  Porthos does marry and leave the musketeers.  
> Louis XIII died in May 1643 and Queen Anne becomes Regent.  
> I’m not being mean to Louis XIV. Dumas writes the boy king as spoiled, selfish and cruel.  
> Cardinal Mazarin is rumoured to be Anne’s lover.  
> Philippe, Duke of Orleans was born in September 1640.  
> Aramis does leave the musketeers to become an abbe in a convent.  
>  **Chapter Seven –**  
>  Madame de Chevreuse in her guise as the seamstress Marie Michon often wore men’s clothes so Aramis would probably not have any problem with his daughter doing the same.  
> D’Artagnan notes in _Twenty Years Later_ that Aramis hasn’t really aged.


End file.
